Thirty Years of Cluttered Floors
by Queen Edmund Pevensie
Summary: 8x21. It's Sam's birthday, and Cas is bleeding out all over their floor. Sam just wants to sleep and to forget that it's his birthday. No plot.


**A/N: Sam's birthday fic. Sort three weeks late. Sorta not happy. If it had been on time, it would be more of a celebration. **

**Thirty Years of Cluttered Floors**

During the final stretch of the ride –from where we picked up Cas to a little after two in the morning when we got home –Sam slept soundly against the passenger side door and Cas floated in and out of consciousness, so I drove back home with one sick and one injured passenger and no idea how to help either of them.

I poked Sam when we got home and he grunted. "Sammy," I said. "You alright?" He groaned sleepily and nodded. "Go inside," I told him. "I gotta help Cas." Sam sighed and opened the door. I helped Cas get out of the car as I watched to make sure Sam got inside okay. I pulled Cas onto his feet and led him down the stairs and into the bunker. Sam was sitting at the table with his head down. Cas looked at Sam.

"Keep it moving," I grumbled. "You're bleeding out all over my floor."

But Cas didn't do anything but look around. "This is where you live?" he asked.

"Yeah," I growled.

"It's nice here," he said. I gave him a shove that would have rocked Sam at his strongest to tell Cas to get a move on, but Cas, even in his weakened condition, didn't move a muscle except to turn his head towards me and say, "It's his birthday," with one eye still on Sam. He frowned. "Today is Sam's birthday," he repeated.

I looked at my watch. "Yeah," I said. "So?"

"This is the day that –"

"Take your pick of the stuff that's happened on Sam's birthday," I interrupted him. "The day he died, the day I went to Hell, oh here's one!" I shoved Cas again just to prove my point. "It's the day our mom sold his soul to Yellow Eyes. _I know."_ I squeezed Cas's shoulder roughly. "Let's get you patched up." I herded Cas into a spare, clean room where I could work and he could muse on the irony of Sam Winchester's Birthday out of Sam Winchester's Earshot. "How'd you know it was his birthday, anyway?" I asked. Not like Sam told Cas when his birthday was.

Cas shrugged. "Perks of being an angel," he suggested, with something that was supposed to be a smile. "The same way I know your true age is closer to seventy than thirty," he added. I looked down to focus on sewing Cas up. I came back from Hell years ago. I'll have nightmares about it until the day I stop sleeping, but at this point, that's really all it is: a nightmare. Since Hell and the Apocalypse, so much has happened that it isn't the worst of my problems.

"How old is he?" asked Cas, watching me finish his stitches. "Really?"

"Thirty," I grunted, not looking up at Cas. I heard him sigh. I know what he meant. He meant with all the years Sam spent in Hell with Michael and Lucifer, but honestly, if Cas can't tell with his special angel powers that can tell himwhen Sam's birthday is, then how the hell am I supposed to know? Sam didn't know either. It was too long to count, maybe even for an angel. So Sam was thirty, and we both pretended that our time in Hell didn't matter.

"He seems much older," mused Cas when he realized I wasn't going to answer his question the way he wanted. I didn't respond. I wanted to, but in my experience, punching an angel didn't do anyone any good. So I didn't respond. I didn't have anything to say to him. Part of me had wanted to leave him to rot in the middle of the road. A small part of me, granted, but still… How many times was I going to let Cas walk all over me, over Sam, over the whole damn world before I learned? I wanted to forgive him, but it was going to take more than a magic Band-Aid this time. So I didn't have anything to say to Cas right now. I only had to patch him up so, in the future, we could talk. There was no way I was going to make friendly conversation about Sam.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Cas said at last, when he realized I really wasn't in the mood to talk to him. "I understand that –"

"Just shut up, Cas, okay!" I snapped. That was his problem all along wasn't it? He thought he understood when he just couldn't. I finished cleaning him up in silence and then I stood. "You rest or something, alright, Cas? I'm going to go check on Sam." Cas didn't say a word.

* * *

Sam was still sitting with his head down on the table. He still wasn't asleep. He was still running a fever. At least he wasn't delirious. I put a hand on his shoulder. He groaned. "Wanna try sleeping in a bed, Sammy?" I asked. He just groaned.

"Just go away, Dean," he said to the table. "You don't have to…"

"Have to what?" I asked. On second thought, maybe he was delirious. I didn't give him a chance to answer though, because I hauled him up onto his feet. I'd put him to bed if I had to, but I expected that once I got him moving, he would do the rest on his own. I was wrong apparently, because not only did Sam not make any indication that he was going to bed, it seemed the only reason he was upright was because I was holding onto him. "Have to what?" I asked again.

Sam shrugged and his eyes drooped. He leaned into me more than he would admit later and I realized I wasn't getting answer from Sam.

"Let's go, then," I sighed. I propelled him forward towards his room gentler than I had pushed Cas.

By the time we had walked the ten yards to his room, Sam was asleep on his feet. I had to do a lot of shuffling and rearranging of limbs to get a good enough grip on Sam and the doorknob to get the door opened safely.

It was an even bigger struggle to get Sam across his room to his bed. The floor was cluttered with books in stacks, and papers in piles, and dirty clothes in heaps. Maneuvering Sam through the maze of stuff exhausted me, and when we stopped to clear his bed of more books, a shoe, several gum wrappers, and a knife I didn't trust Sam to hold much less sleep with under his pillow, we were both about ready to drop. To his credit, he was doing everything he could to function on his own. That is, everything he could to make himself easier to move.

I let go of Sam and he swayed on the spot before he collapsed onto his bed. "You can go now, Dean," he said to me in that voice that told me a million things, none of which said it was okay for me to leave. I pulled off his boots and tossed them next to his backpack, which was lying open and spilling its contents all over the floor.

"Go to sleep, Sam," I said, pushing him down. I thought he must have been asleep before his head hit the pillow. He turned over on his side. His eyes were closed and his breathing was evening out. "Happy Birthday," I added before I left. I knew I shouldn't have. But even if Sam can never enjoy his birthday, it doesn't mean it can't ever be happy. And maybe, just this one time, for the first time in years, it could be just that. Happy.

"Stop," he muttered into his pillow. I looked at him. For a minute, I thought he was having a nightmare, but when I looked down, his eyes were wide open and staring at me. "Don't do that."

"Sam?"

"Don't wish me a happy birthday," he growled. "I hate my birthday. I hate this whole damn time of year!" Sam rolled over again, this time away from me.

I sighed tiredly. "Sammy," I began, forgetting the lecture about Sam's birthday I had given Cas already, but before I could continue, Sam cut me off.

"Don't start," he said. He pushed himself upright, sitting uneasily, and looked towards me, but he couldn't get his eyes to focus. "I know what you're going to say," he declared, waving a knowing finger at me, which almost threw his whole body off balance. He squeezed his eyes shut against the wave a nausea that passed through him. "You're going to say," he continued. "How all that stuff doesn't matter because my birthday will always be the happiest day of your life because it was the day I was born, but my birthday…" his voice trailed off and he put his head in his hands. This time, I knew what he was going to say: it would have been better if he had never been born. "I _hate_ my birthday, Dean. I wasn't even alive on some of them!" He took a deep, shaky breath. I stood in Sam's room on his thirtieth birthday, amidst the clutter and trash of a man who didn't know how to settle down, wishing I could somehow make him understand. Make everyone understand. "My birthday doesn't mean anything," he told me. "And it sure as hell isn't worth celebrating."

"Fine," I said, bracing myself against Sam's words. I bore their impact like a personal attack and I wanted to hit Sam or shake him or yell until he_ got it. _Until he knew why no matter what happened, what he did on this day, it will always be the happiest day of my life. "Fine," I repeated. Something inside of me wanted to lash out at Sam. No matter what would happen this year, Sam's life would always be worth celebrating. "I'm sorry you feel that way." If I could just reason with him! I looked back at him, but he had somehow already fallen asleep. "I have to go check on Cas," I told him anyway.

I turned around and picked my way across his floor. When I got to the door, I turned around to see Sam's shoulders hunched and shaking before I slammed it shut, not forgetting to flick off the light.


End file.
